


i speak the language of flowers (can you hear me?)

by wrenstars



Series: sumitaba week 2020 [2]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Character Study, Developing Relationship, F/F, Getting Together, Insecurities, Kasumi Lives, Self depreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25843717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenstars/pseuds/wrenstars
Summary: sumire works at a flower shop, and futaba's request is the most memorable to date.
Relationships: Sakura Futaba/Yoshizawa Sumire, Yoshizawa Sumire & Yoshizawa Kasumi
Series: sumitaba week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873864
Comments: 7
Kudos: 45





	i speak the language of flowers (can you hear me?)

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a fun 2k story about flower sayings and play on words… and it somehow evolved into a 7k+ words of character study where every flower mentioned has been deliberately chosen and researched. why do words do this. why does my BRAIN do this.

“Yo. Give me a rose.” 

The voice is unfamiliar. Sumire stands, blinks—there’s only one customer at the front of the store, but she’s looking at the flowers so vacantly that, if not for the request, Sumire would think that she’d wandered here by mistake. Her hands are tucked into her hoodie, one that displays the logo of a video game Sumire has never heard of, and a pair of headphones rest around her shoulders.

Possible mistake or no, a customer is a customer. Sumire smooths down her apron and smiles. “Just a single rose today?” 

The girl nods. “Yup.”

“Do you have a preferred colour?”

“I don’t care.” She shrugs. “Any old rose is fine.”

This is getting more unusual by the minute. Sumire purses her lips and looks around the shop— _any old rose_ may be enough to satisfy the girl, but it isn’t for Sumire. The purchase must be perfect, to the flower message, to the colours and the aesthetics. 

She browses the shop and comes to a stop before the arrangement of orange roses. She doesn’t know the first thing about this girl, but the rose _does_ seem to suit her. She plucks a single flower and returns to the front of the store..

“What’s the occasion, may I ask?” Sumire asks, handing the rose over.

“None,” the girl responds, “Unless teasing my brother is one, which it _should_ be. He told me—with _the_ most shit-eating grin, the fool—that I need to go outside more often and smell the roses. _I_ told him that was rubbish and that he was using the saying wrong, but he just cited things about the evolution of language and other bullshit like that.” She throws her hands into the air. “He’s been spending _way_ too much time with his boyfriend. So, anyway, if we’re now taking creative liberties with language, I thought I’d be funny to buy a rose to prove a point.” 

Her shoulders heave by the end, breaths coming to her in short pants. Sumire blinks. “Oh. I see.”

At a loss for how otherwise to respond, she lists the price. The girl fumbles for the needed yen and Sumire stands to the side, replaying the scenario in her head. Now that the shock of a (highly relatable) sibling rant being dumped on her out of nowhere in the middle of her shift has worn off, the more she can process what she just heard, and the more humour the situation creates and the more her lips twitch. She manages to hold her composure until she imagines the faceless brother’s expression, and she covers her mouth and _snorts_.

The girl freezes in the middle of counting her yen. 

“W-what’s up?” she asks. She shoves the hand that isn’t holding the rose into her pocket and lunches in on herself, defensive. “I’m sorry if that was a bit much.”

Sumire shakes her head, smiling. “Nothing of the sort! I’ve just never heard a story like yours before, but I _definitely_ relate to the need to get back at your sibling.” She outstretches your hand. “You have to tell me how it goes at some point!”

The girl freezes, blinks. Sumire bites her lip, wondering if she had been a bit too untoward, when the biggest grin spreads across the girl’s face and she laughs like Christmas has come early. 

“Oh, yes, _please_ ,” she exclaims, bouncing on her feet. She takes Sumire’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “It’s a deal! Ren needs to be made fun of by more people.”

Sumire laughs. “It sounds like he does.”

“One hundred percent agreed. So many people like him—which, you know, _fair_ , he’s _kind_ of cool for an older brother sometimes, but he needs to be brought down a peg or two to be reminded he’s actually _human_ every now and again—oh, hang on, I put my yen away didn’t I?” The girl sighs. “God, now I have to count them out again…” 

She hastily reproduces her coins and counts them, thrusting a handful into Sumire’s hands. “There. I’ll keep you updated on my status!” She gives Sumire a salute and turns, marching away with her hands clasped behind her. 

Sumire’s eyes linger on the corner she’d disappeared behind before she returns to her work, a dazed smile on her face. 

It’s only when Sumire serves her next customer that she realises that she never asked for the girl’s name. 

― _orange rose: fascination, enthusiasm, passion_

* * *

The flower shop is far from the Yoshizawa’s main source of income.

There are four of them—Sumire, her father and mother, and her older sister, Kasumi. Their father directs Good Morning Japan and makes more than enough money to comfortably cover everything they need, but their mother loves flowers. She loves gardening, she loves spreading joy and making someone’s day just a little brighter. So, she’d set up her flower store as a result: her flowers are a labour of love, the baskets and accessories she sells on the side made from scratch at home. 

Sumire doesn’t _have_ to work there, but she loves the store’s quiet, quaint environment so much that she’d asked to anyway. Pruning flowers, arranging bouquets, surrounding herself with flowers and kindly customers—it’s exactly what she needs to relax between intense gymnastics training and her studies. Kasumi helps out on occasion, though she mostly does it for the extra pocket money and opportunity to be social on the job, rather than a love for flowers.

Lately, however, Sumire has had another, not-so-calming reason to look forward to her shifts at the store: there’s always a chance that she’ll see the orange rose girl again. She hasn’t stopped by since their promise, and none of the other workers have reported seeing anyone like her, either. 

Sumire imagines how their next meeting will go. First, she’ll ask for the girl’s name, and then she’ll ask for the story. The girl will relay it all in detail that exaggerates her brother’s reactions and they’ll laugh until their sides hurt, and then they’ll share numbers, and they can bond over the need to make fun of older siblings. It’ll be silly, but it’ll be _fun_. It’ll be a breath of fresh air in Sumire’s otherwise jam-packed schedule. 

If she hasn’t forgotten, that is, or decided that she doesn’t actually _want_ to talk to Sumire again. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened to her. The more time that passes, the more Sumire’s sure that is the case. 

“Don’t look so down,” Kasumi pipes up, a week later. She nudges Sumire’s side. “I _know_ what you’re thinking, and it’s wrong. I’ll bet my entire paycheck that the cute girl will show up in the next few days.”

Sumire coughs over the white roses she’d been arranging. “I wasn’t—when did I say she was _cute_?”

Kasumi winks. “Just now.”

Sumire groans and buries her head in her hands. “You are the _worst_ ,” she mutters, “And I hate you. I hope you know that.”

Kasumi’s only response is a jovial, light-hearted laugh. Sumire lifts her head just enough to shoot her a withering glare from between narrowed eyes.

The utter _audacity_ of elder siblings sometimes. She’s sure that the other girl would agree. 

Though maybe, sometimes, occasionally, _possibly_ , older siblings can spout words of wisdom. Sumire has barely started her shift the next day when a familiar voice calls, “Hey! You’re here!”

Sumire’s heart skips a beat. Her head snaps up and she almost topples over a pot of white roses in her haste to get to the front of the store. And there she is, the same girl—same hair, same glasses, different shirt but same smile. Sumire can’t stop the warm smile that spreads across the face.

So Kasumi _was_ right. Incredible.

Sumire is so glad that she didn’t take her sister up on her bet yesterday.

“I thought you’d forgotten,” she says.

The girl rubs her arm. “Eh, sorry about that. I dropped by the first two days, but you weren’t on and I didn’t want to talk to strangers. Then _life_ happened,” her expression drops a little at this, “But—I’m here! Mission requirements fulfilled!” 

Her smile is off-kilter, a painting close to hanging straight but not quite.

Sumire dusts her hands. “There’s no need to apologise,” she insists. “I understand completely.”

The girl’s eyes narrow. “You do, huh?” she questions, like she’s treading water and can’t decide if Sumire is a harmless fish or a circling shark, waiting to catch her unawares. 

She’s on guard today, Sumire notes, apprehensive. There’s a wall between herself and Sumire—Sumire wouldn’t be surprised if that extended to the rest of the world.

She thinks she understands. Spontaneous meetings are easy, thoughtless; preordained ones… not so much. Kasumi tends to take over in those situations.

“I do,” Sumire says quietly, nodding. “Life can get a bit much sometimes, can’t it?”

The weight of the world can be carried so easily in a single word.

Some alertness returns to the girl’s eyes. She’s still tense, pulling at the edge of her sleeves, but she steps closer. “Yup.”

Sumire wonders if the girl noticed the same thing she did: a glimpse past a closed curtain, showing a hint of someone who could possibly understand you, and the possibility of knowing something about a total stranger whose name you still don’t know. The fleeting thought that, just maybe, you’re not alone.

That can be scary in itself, Sumire thinks. Scarier, perhaps, than remaining unknown. 

“So!” the girl rubs her hands together, perhaps with a little more energy than the situation calls for. “Do you want to hear about how flabbergasted Ren was after I gave him that rose?”

Sumire grins. “Tell me as I work. I can’t wait to hear it.”

The girl grins and launches into her tale. It’s all Sumire had envisioned and better—exaggerated, extravagant, excitable. Sumire laughs and smiles all throughout the girl’s retelling, pauses while rearranging yellow and pink azalea flowers because she’s bent over double laughing, which seems to bring the girl some satisfaction. When she finishes, Sumire’s cheeks ache from her grins and her laughter, and the girl’s eyes are sparkling.

“I’d have _paid_ to have been there,” Sumire gasps, wiping her eyes. “That’s incredible, uh—”

Oops. 

She forgot her step one. She still doesn’t know the girl’s name. 

Fortunately, the girl picks up on it and, in a move of deja vu, thrusts her hand out. “Look, you’re obviously a fellow protagonist, so let’s stop being strangers, huh? I’m Sakura Futaba.”

She stammers a little, but it’s a first step—strangers, to acquaintances. Sumire swallows down the pounding of her heart and smiles. “Yoshizawa Sumire,” she says, taking that first step with her, one that goes into unfamiliar territory. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Futaba-san.”

The girl, _Futaba_ , wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. Please, there’s no formalities, that just sounds _weird_. Futaba is a-okay, I swear.” 

“Okay. Futaba.”

Sumire shivers just saying it. 

“That’s better, _Sumire_.” Futaba grins and clasps her hands behind her back, leaning over to peer deeper into the flower shop and rocking back on her heels. “So what do you do here? This is actually only the second time I’ve been to a flower shop on my own.”

Sumire perks up like her sunflowers. It isn’t often she gets to talk about her flower shop stuff, especially to someone who seems as willing to listen as Futaba is. “Well, you see—”

She explains as she works, providing demonstrations and bringing flowers out from the back of the shop. They continue until a customer arrives and starts browsing, which is when Futaba steps back. 

“I’ll leave you to your sidequest,” Futaba says. She pulls out her phone and hands it to Sumire. “Gimme your phone number so we don’t keep missing each other. I prefer texting, anyway.”

Sumire nods. “Fine by me.” 

Futaba’s phone is nicer than Sumire’s; it’s more modern, sleek and advanced, a thought-out purchase compared to Sumire’s as-long-as-it-works-I’m-fine device. Sumire punches her number in then pauses, hesitating, before darting back into the shop.

When she emerges, there’s a forget-me-not in her hand. She passes it to Futaba along with her phone.

“It’s on the house,” she says, when Futaba starts to protest. “Don’t forget about me, okay?”

_Not like everyone else_. 

Futaba nods, holding the flower as though afraid of breaking it. “Thanks, Sumi. I’ll text you later!”

And indeed she does. When Sumire returns home for the night, she finds that she has not one, but several texts waiting for her.

**FUTABA:** hey!!! 

**FUTABA:** _invitation to play BLOOMING BUDS_

**FUTABA:** i found this flower themed mobile game this afternoon!

**FUTABA:** thought it’d be cool to play together! (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)و

Sumire’s heart thuds in her chest.

**SUMIRE:** that sounds wonderful!

**SUMIRE:** i can’t wait to try it!

**FUTABA:** when you sign up i can gift you some items i’ve snatched already

**SUMIRE:** thank you futaba!!

**SUMIRE:** signing up now (^○^)

**FUTABA:** YESSSSSS

**FUTABA:** this is gonna be a blast trust me

**SUMIRE:** i already do!

**SUMIRE:** signed up! my user is violetsfaith

**FUTABA:** SWEET

**FUTABA:** adding you now let’s dO THIS!!

**SUMIRE:** (o^∀^)

― _forget me not: remembrance, loyalty, growing affection_

* * *

“And _that’s_ how Sumire ended up eating the chocolate-chilli-pepper-whatever dish from hell,” Kasumi finishes, laughing.

She’s told it so often that Sumire knows she’s not laughing at the story, but rather at Futaba’s reaction. Futaba’s in stitches: she slaps a hand against her leg and she bends over double, red-faced with tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Sumire shoots a sister a withering glare. “It’s not _that_ funny,” she grumbles, just a little petulantly. 

“It fucking is though,” Futaba gasps. “I’m sorry, Sumire, but the image of you—” 

Her face screws up and she dissolves into a fit of giggles again **,** still clutching her stomach. She looks at Kasumi, a wicked glint in her eye that spells _trouble_. “Tell me more.”

Kasumi claps her hands, steadfastly ignoring the increasing intensity of the look Sumire bores into the back of her head. “Oh, gladly!”

Futaba shifts onto the edge of her seat, swallows back her laughter and listens attentively to whatever story Kasumi next concocts. Sumire smiles and returns to her work, trying to ignore the awful feeling in her stomach, like she’s swallowed bitter medicine that only makes her problems worse.

Of course Futaba’s happy with Kasumi. _Everyone_ gets along with Kasumi—Sumire doesn’t think there’s anyone who _doesn’t_ like her—so it’s no surprise that Futaba likes her, too. God, Sumire’s happy that _Futaba’s_ happy; happy that she can experience any of the joy Sumire does when she reads Futaba’s messages. 

Futaba messages her daily, which had quickly put Sumire’s earlier fears of their acquaintance being fleeting to rest. Fuaba shares outlandish memes and pictures of Ren’s cat; she shows off her latest high scores in video games or texts just to chat about their days. She sends pictures of flowers she sees around, too, but those are rarer compared to the content of most of her messages.

Futaba drops by occasionally, too, content to linger around the front of the store and animatedly describe what she loves and hates about her latest video game while Sumire works, and listen to Sumire talk about gymnastics, gardening and her latest cooking ventures. When it gets busy, Sumire invites her into the store and she’ll sit in a corner, playing on her phone or other handheld console until the rush passes. 

Slowly, they’ve been getting closer. Slowly, Futaba has started lowering some of her many walls, allowing herself to be a little more open with Sumire. While she can’t say that she knows everything about Futaba, Sumire can definitely say that she really likes the parts she does know—and that she’s pretty sure she’ll like even the most hidden parts of her, too. 

She smiles after every message, and her mood lifts every time Futaba drops by. It’s been a long time since she’s been as intimate with anyone as she’s been with Futaba: she’s always been the afterthought compared to Kasumi, after all. _Kasumi_ is the one people want to be friends with, after all, being the bright, bubbly and outgoing girl—Sumire was just tolerated because she and Kasumi were a package deal. 

It was nice to have a friend unrelated to Kasumi. It was nice to have a person that Sumire treasured so much that her entire day turned brighter simply seeing her name pop up on her notification screen. 

But it was inevitable that Futaba and Kasumi would meet, considering Sumire’s shifts are at similar times to her sister’s to accommodate their gymnastics training. 

Sumire wonders if Futaba will start to prefer Kasumi in time, too, just like everyone else has.

She’s used to sharing with Kasumi. It’s fine. 

She doesn’t know why this bothers her so much.

“Oh, Kasumi-chan! How lovely to see you today. I’m so glad to catch you during your shift.”

Sumire glances over. It’s Amaya, a middle-aged woman and one of their store’s regulars. Or, at least, as regular as flower store customers can me.

“Amaya-san!” Kasumi greets warmly. She dances over, beaming. “Welcome back! How’s Hina doing?”

“Wonderful, thank you dearie. She’s the reason we’re here actually—she’s gotten engaged!”

Kasumi gasps. “How wonderful!” she exclaims, clasping her hands in front of her. 

They begin to chat, discussing all the details of Amaya’s daughter’s engagement and initial wedding plans in detail. Sumire folds her arms. She knows that most of the regular customers prefer Kasumi; even though Sumire is polite and gentle, they favour Kasumi’s friendliness and cheer, and her ability to actively engage with them for minutes and minutes on end.

It doesn’t matter. Sumire loves the flower shop for the flowers and the calm that comes from repetitive movements like baking, not the customers. It’s convenient that Kasumi can handle them for her.

Kasumi is handling Amaya perfectly well on her own, so Sumire leaves her to it and plops herself next to Futaba instead, who’s taken out her Switch now that Kasumi is elsewhere. Sumire rests her head on Futaba’s shoulder and squints at the screen, which shows Al Azif, Futaba’s Animal Habour island. 

“What are you up to?” she asks, watching Futaba water her flowers. She has all the different types of flower, though they’re all of the black, blue or purple varieties. Lately, however, Sumire has noticed that Futaba’s starting to include various shades of pink and red into her flower arrangements. 

Futaba grins. “Check this out!” she crows, opening her inventory and shoving the screen in Sumire’s face. “I _finally_ earned enough Mook Miles for it!” 

Once Sumire’s expressed suitable excitement about Futaba’s latest achievement, Futaba grins and begins a quick tour around her techno-Featherman-and-space inspired island, so different to Sumire’s own vintage-themed one. She describes her plans for custom paths, her decision to relocate her museum and the waterform she’ll terraform in its place. 

She’s so excited about it, enthusiasm packed behind every word. Sumire could listen to her ramble for days on end. 

“Visit my island when you get home,” Futaba says once she’s back at the beginning. “You can buy that bed in Mook’s Corner and I can gift you the strawberry furniture!”

Sumire’s heart flutters—a hopeful yet fearful thing, like a baby bird caught between the realisation that it could take flight and be free, or plummet to the ground. ““That sounds great.”

“Hey, Sumire!” Kasumi yells across the store. Sumire jumps. “You’ve been slacking for too long. Come help me with this order.”

Order. Right. She’s still working. 

Sumire sends Futaba an apologetic look, standing and dusting her apron down. “TIme to go, it seems.” 

A flash of red catches Sumire’s eye and she pauses, head tilted to the side. Red anemone. She could laugh at the timing, at how perfect it is for this moment—perhaps that’s what entices her to pluck a single blossom and tuck it behind Futaba’s ear.

Futaba’s eyes widen. “What’s this for?” she exclaims, clutching the flower as though afraid a gust of wind will blow it away.

Sumire shrugs. “I just thought it’d suit you.”

It does.

She’s distracted for the rest of her shift. 

― _red anemone: anticipation, fragility, sincerity_

* * *

Kasumi’s ability to quickly change is an art in itself.

She dances by the store within a minute of finishing her shift, dressed in her polka dot red shirt, flared white skirt and sandals, strawberry handbag on her side. “I’m officially off the clock!” she calls. She waves to Futaba, who’s leaning against the wall and playing idly on her Switch. “Hey, Futaba, I’m going to a cafe for some lunch. Do you wanna join me?” 

Futaba looks around the store, at the outside crowd, and shrugs. “Nah. I’m happy here.” 

She looks back at her game and idly continues on.

Kasumi‘s eyes widen. “ _Ahh_ , I see. Okay then.” She sends Sumire a mischievous wink—why she does this, exactly, Sumire doesn’t know, but it still makes her blush. “Have fun together!”

Futaba sends her an idle salute, her eyes still on her screen. “Sure will!” 

Kasumi grins at Sumire, mouths “ _Good luck_!” and darts away. The entire exchange feels like a hurricane has swept through the area but Sumire has barely noticed it. 

She looks over at Futaba. She doesn’t _look_ happy, not like she’d claimed—her eyes are downcast, her brows furrowed and her lips pinched in the corners. Her claim otherwise was likely just a mask, concealing her dissatisfaction being here to spare Sumire’s feelings. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with her?” Sumire asks. She busies herself with rearranging a display so Futaba can’t see her face. “I won’t be lonely; I have work to do.”

For a moment, the only noise is the rustle of petals and leaves as Sumire frets over their presentation. But then Futaba sighs, a sound so soft but so heavy, one accompanied by the gentle thud of her head against the wall. 

“I’m sure,” she mumbles, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t feel up to dealing with big crowds today.”

She sounds so _tired_ , so drained and depleted of all energy, like she’s in emergency power mode and even that is failing. Sumire’s stomach twists; she’s instantly alert, turning her back to the flower and walking close to Futaba instead.. “What’s wrong, Futaba?” she asks, peering closely at Futaba’s face (she’s pale, but not sick-levels of pale). “Is it anything I can help you with?”

“Not _really_ ,” Futaba mutters. “It’s something I mostly have to solo mission.” 

“Solo mission?” Sumire repeats.

Futaba closes her eyes. She places her consol down, takes her glasses off and rubs them, looking down and refusing to make eye contact with Sumire. “I don’t like leaving my room all that much,” she mumbles. The world is just too much sometimes, you know? I’m still equipping the proper skills to handle it.” 

She scuffs the floor with the toe of her boot, agitated, looking like she wants to crawl out of her own skin. Sumire swallows. She can barely feel her heart beat in her chest, can barely feel anything at all.

She doubts she’s experienced whatever Futaba has, and doubts it’s to the same extremes, but her words are so achingly familiar. It makes Sumire think of her time in Kasumi’s shadow, feeling like she was lacking and missing something everyone else had that kept her on the outskirts. She intimately knows how it is to feel like the world is so big, but still unable to squeeze out space for you to fit in.

Sumire reaches out and takes Futaba’s hand, squeezing it. “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to tell you I understand… But I do. And I’m sorry that’s something you have to experience as well.”

Futaba nods, kicking out at open air. “Thanks,” she mumbles. “It feels strange to say this, but—I’m glad there’s someone out there who gets it. My family do their best, but. Well. They can’t understand _everything_.” 

“Kasumi’s another person who would understand,” Sumire says helpfully. “She’s fine around me, after all.”

“Why are we talking about Kasumi,” Futaba asks flatly, still not looking up.

“I… I thought that you wanted to go with her.”

“Nope. I’m happier with you.” She shakes her head when Sumire’s jaw drops. “Why do you look so surprised?”

It takes a few seconds for Sumire to remember how to speak. “No reason,” she stammers. “It’s just... I believe most people are of the opinion that Kasumi’s the better company.”

“Whoever said you _aren’t_ fun to be around?”

Sumire considers. “I’m not sure,” she realises, then shrugs. Even if it wasn’t ever stated outright, the sentiment has always been perfectly clear and easily inferrable. “Everybody, really. Kasumi’s always the first choice.”

That’s the way it’s been for as long as she can remember. She’s just gotten used to it.

Futaba taps her fingers on her abandoned console, fidgeting with the controls. “Normally I’d tell you that people are wrong and you are S rank company… But it’s not that simple for you, is it?” she mutters. “You feel like a background character, even in your own story. And, even though keep telling yourself you’re the protagonist, the rest of the world makes fun of you and treats you like an NPC?”

Sumire’s throat tightens—Futaba’s ability to perfectly articulate how she feels makes her feel a little sick. She leans against the wall for extra support. “Yes,” she croaks, staring at Futaba. “A-All the time.”

Futaba nods knowingly. “Me too.” She looks at Sumire over the top of her glasses. “We may be more similar than we first thought.” 

“Maybe so,” Sumire muses.

Silence settles over them, a silence thick and heavy with the weight of their shared secrets. Futaba’s entire posture has dropped as though crushed by the weight—Sumire wouldn’t be surprised if hers is, too, if she bothered to pay attention to it. 

Sumire musters a smile. A genuine one, one that’s deserved for Futaba and Futaba’s eyes alone. 

“Hey, after I finish my shift, do you want to go to your place? After all you’ve raved about it, I want to watch Last Fantasy 7 being played in person. And see if you’re right about who my favourite character would be.” 

It’s like a light has switched on in Futaba’s head: her eyes light up and she grins, clapping her hands together. “Oh _hell_ yeah! And you can try some of Sojiro’s curry, too! He’s a softie, he’ll give you seconds for free if you ask for it.”

If Sumire wasn’t sold before, the promise of free seconds does it. She beams. “That sounds perfect.”

“Glad to hear it.” Futaba considers a nearby stand of amaryllis flowers and nods. “How much for a few of those?”

Sumire lists the price. Futaba pulls out the money and hands Sumire the flowers instead. “For you, as thanks.”

― _amaryllis: splendid beauty, worth beyond beauty_

* * *

“Hey, Sumire, come help me with this order,” Kasumi calls

Sumire pauses in the middle of her work and casts her eyes skyward, cursing under her breath. 

She _really_ doesn’t want to deal with Kasumi today, but she _also_ doesn’t want to create any highly-noticeable animosity between them. She’s been good at avoiding her sister lately and making it look natural, she thinks: she’s cited a need to focus on the bar to avoid Kasumi at practice; worked at the back while Kasumi handled customers; scoffed meals down quickly so she could return to her ‘studies’ (but, in reality, play more _Blooming Buds_ with Futaba). 

To let her rising bitterness be known invites confrontation, something that Sumire has always tried to avoid. She’s felt this way about Kasumi before and gotten over it, so it has to happen again, right? It’ll die down soon. So, really, helping with the bouquets is only a small price to pay in the meantime.

“Sure,” she calls back, shortly, and walks to the back.

The order is for a large number of wedding bouquets. Sumire wonders—quite sourly—whether it’s Amaya’s daughter’s order and whether Kasumi was informed about it, but shuts the thought down and wills herself to focus on the arrangement instead. She’s always loved arrangements, the feeling of the flowers beneath her fingers and the satisfaction of the final result. She doesn’t want that feeling to become marred in any way.

They work in companionable silence for a while before Kasumi looks over from her work. 

“Sumi,” she says quietly. “We need to talk.”

Sumire freezes.

“What about?” she asks, acutely aware of the minor tremor in her voice. She restarts her hands, even though she knows it’s useless: Kasumi’s eyes had honed in when they stopped moving. She shrugs. “We can’t talk for long, anyway, the store’s still open. A customer could arrive soon.”

Kasumi rolls her eyes. “We both know this time period is _incredibly_ slow. And what _do_ you think” She quirks and eyebrow and glares. There’s something in her eyes that’s the closest Sumire has come to seeing Kasumi wear animosity before. “ You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t!” Sumire fires back, and winces. That way too fast a response to be sincere.

God, she can’t even defend herself properly. Is there anything she can actually do?

Kasumi closes her eyes. “Not just recently—you’ve been doing it for a while. You always got over it so I didn’t think too much of it before, but I just can’t ignore how it’s affecting you now.” She rests a hand on Sumire’s shoulder and shakes her lightly. “Sumire, _please_. Talk to me. I’m your _sister_.”

Her voice cracks on the last word. Kasumi runs a hand over her forehead and adds, in a lower voice, “You don’t have to hide that you’re jealous of me, you know.”

Sumire sighs. “I’m not _jealous_ of you,” she mutters. She places her half-finished bouquet down; it’s pointless to pretend that either of them are still trying to work when they so obviously aren’t. “I just wish I was more like you.”

“How so?”

How not would be a question with a far less lengthy response.

“Just… everything! Better at everything!” Sumire throws her arms in the air. “That I was anywhere near as good as you at _anything_. You’re incredible, Kasumi; you’re friendly and talented and good at gymnastics and everyone likes you and compared to you I’m… I’m _nobody_. I’m worthless, _nothing_. And don’t you dare feel pity for me. I stopped being frustrated long ago—I’ve accepted it now.”

Sumire only realises how fast she’s spoken, and how much of it she’d said in one breath, until she finishes and her shoulders are heaving, lungs all but screaming for more air. She turns away from Kasumi and inhales deeply, waiting for her body to return to functioning as per normal. 

Kasumi waits for her to recover before tapping Sumire’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s sit down for this.”

She walks to the far end of the store and slides down the wall, settling on the faux-grass-covered floor and patting the open space beside her. Sumire sends her an incredulous look, but her only protest is a heavy sigh as she walks over, plonking herself beside her sister. She draws her knees to her chest and hugs them, staring resolutely at the front of the store—at anything that isn’t Kasumi.

“Why do you want to be like me?” Kasumi asks. 

Sumire could laugh at the ignorance. 

“Why _wouldn’t_ I?” she snaps back bitterly. She’d worried about it, but it feels nice to drop the pretense, to let everything out that’s been festering for years upon years upon _years_. She counts each point off her fingers. Your skills in gymnastics, the way you can engage so easily with everyone over the smallest topics, your brightness and capability…” Her hand curls into a fist and she draws her knees closer to her chest. “Compared to you, I fall short every way.”

Kasumi’s eyes flicker, like this is the first horror film she has ever seen. Sumire snorts and looks at the ground, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. 

“Is there anything you _do_ like about yourself, Sumire?” Kasumi asks quietly. 

“I’m getting good at video games.”

“That’s not what I meant and _you know it_!”

The outburst is enough to make Sumire jump. She leans away from her sister, who looks at her with blazing eyes and heated, red cheeks. 

“Be _serious_ , Sumi, _goddammit_!” Her hands ball into fists in her lap. “Because _I_ can tell you that I love your graceful, delicate gymnastics style and that you’re so _incredibly_ intelligent and you’re kind and empathetic but you’re _not going to believe that_ unless it comes from _yourself_.” She jabs Sumire in the middle of her chest. “So tell me something, _anything_ , that you like about yourself.”

Sumire swallows. Her head is spinning with the onslaught of Kasumi’s words; she feels like she’s been asked to climb Mount Fuji while dizzy. She closes her eyes and focuses on breathing, collecting her thoughts enough to think this sudden, ginormous problem through.

Well, her most positive interactions lately have been with Futaba. That’s as good a place to begin as any. 

“I’m patient,” she says, fiddling with her glasses. “Good at listening. Empathetic, probably?” She shrugs half-heartedly. “I guess I must be kind of strong for getting so far, despite hating myself for so much of it.”

Her tongue burns admitting it. It’s… quite shameful to admit.

But Kasumi doesn’t seem to think so: she beams and takes Sumire’s hands. “That’s better! That’s so, _so_ much better.” She looks at Sumire dead in the eye. “Everything I told you before is true. You _are_ intelligent. You _are_ brilliant. You’re _so_ strong in _so_ many areas. I want you to be happy so _please_. See that for yourself. Otherwise I wouldn’t truly have a rival.”

Kasumi grins. Sumire blinks. 

“You consider me your rival?” she says, slowly, articulating every syllable so she can be sure, sure that this is what Kasumi will hear, sure that this is not a mistake or a very strange dream that she’s still in the process of waking up from. 

Kasumi nods, so firmly that even a possible dream-Sumire wouldn’t be able to mistake that as a shake of the head.

“Sure do,” she chirps. “I thought I was telling you that I didn’t want to lose to you.” Her smile fades. “Clearly you were receiving a different message.” 

Sumire looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s miscommunication on both sides—and looking back, I haven’t been the most considerate, really, leaving you on your own so often.” Kasumi nudges Sumire’s knee. “So what are you going to do from here?”

Sumire rests her head on her knee. What _is_ she going to do? This talk has been enlightening, but it’s hardly given her a map to trudge through her personal problems and traumas. She still doesn’t know what direction she’s facing, if she’s right-side up or upside-down, still suffocating in the weight of Kasumi’s shadow and her own self-loathing. This conversation has been a gulp of fresh air, able to keep her going a little longer until she can break the surface again. 

“I don’t know,” she sighs, rubbing her forehead. “This isn’t a magical cure-all realisation.”

Kasumi nods. “I never said it was. You have a lot to work through—and I won’t deny I have a few things to figure out, too. People pleasing and putting myself under too much pressure to be perfect to be two of them.” She laughs when Sumire gapes at her. “What do you look so surprised for? I know older siblings are supposed to be tough and reliable, but I’m not _infallible_.”

She jabs her hand into Sumire’s side, right where she’s sensitive and weak, and tickles. Sumire shrieks and jerks away, laughing and clutching her side and grasping out for Kasumi’s own weak spot: her stomach. Kasumi’s resounding squeal tells her she’s found it. Within seconds they’re a mess on their floor, stomachs aching from the force of their laughter. 

“... Do I _wanna_ know what I’ve just walked into?”

Sumire hiccoughs and tilts her head back. Futaba stands over them, her hands on her hips and a look on her face like she’s faced with two mischievous, misbehaving puppies. 

“Probably not,” Kasumi says brightly, wiping her eyes. 

“Good,” Futaba says shortly. “I want it to stay that way.” She nudges Sumire’s shoulder with her foot. “Hey, Sumi. Are we still up for Paintoon today?”

“Oh.” Sumire heaves herself off the floor and into a sitting position, straightening her glasses and combing her hands through her tousled hair. “Of course,” she says, accepting Futaba’s hand. She checks the time once she’s on her feet. “I only have half an hour left.”

It’s only a short time—a blink, almost—but it’s still long enough to dampen her spirits. Kasumi takes one look at her, rolls her eyes, and sendings her a knowing wink.

“It’s slow today,” she says, stretching. “ I’ll cover for you—go have some fun.”

Sumire’s arms are around her sister in a second.

“Love you, Kasumi.”

“I love you too.” She grasps Sumire’s forearms as they part. “ We’ll talk about this more and sort some things out later, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Sumire nods. “Okay.”

It’s only the first of many, many steps. But still, despite still being in the dark, she can see two pinpricks of hope: that she and Kasumi are beginning to understand each other, and the orange-haired, game-and-Featherman-loving girl who’s in step beside her.

The cherry blossoms are already in bloom outside, falling gently like soft breaths between kisses. The late sun kisses Sumire’s skin as she walks along, a skip to her step. 

“You look happy,” Futaba notes.

Sumire smiles. She lifts a hand up, delighted when she catches several blossoms in her hand. She lifts her face to the sky and smiles, spreading her arms out like a bird taking flight. She looks back at Futaba and, heavens, there has to be a reason Sakura is her family name: the pink blossoms swirl around her, making her look utterly ethereal. 

“It just feels like a new beginning.” 

― _sakura: coming of spring, new beginnings, affection_

* * *

“And I was winning because, _obviously_ , who do you think I _am_ , but then this _punk_ comes in with the _rarest armour in the game_ which, _no fair_ , I’ve been searching for that armour since the game came _out_ and when I next get a moment of free time I’m gonna hack the system and get the armour that way because, _again_ , _unfair_ , and my character isn’t a _thief_ for _fucking nothing_ —”

Sumire laughs. She feels like she’s in the early days of summer already—being around Futaba is just so much fun, so _joyful_ , it always makes her feel like she’s constantly bathed in the sun. She has no idea what Futaba’s talking about, but loves hearing it anyway.

“That sounds wildly fun,” she says, once Futaba has finished her ramble. “ _Definitely_ another game you need to introduce me to someday!”

Futaba rubs her hands together. “It’s already on the list. We’re going to marathon all these games one day, and I absolutely refuse to let you back out of it!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

And she wouldn’t. Not because she’s afraid of Futaba’s (empty, mostly, Sumire’s actually not entirely sure) threats about hacking her data if she doesn’t, but because she enjoys video games. She’s still utterly clueless about them—the game she’s most proficient at is still Blooming Buds, and the most she _does_ know about video games comes from the research she does on the ones Futaba explicitly mentions—but she doesn’t have to _understand_ to be caught in the excitement. Sharing that with Futaba is more than enough.

Futaba hangs around for the rest of the shift, from the sudden busy period to Sumire handing off to the next employee. It’s one of the most enjoyable shifts at the store Sumire’s done in a while, even if not the most relaxing.

It’s not really relaxing to be around Sakura Futaba anymore. It’s electrifying, exciting, _enthralling_. And Sumire wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I can’t linger today,” she says regretfully, as they exit the mall. “I have an appointment with my therapist in half an hour.”

She’s had five sessions with Dr. Maruki Takuto so far, ever since her second heavy, heart-to-heart conversation with Kasumi. It had involved a lot of crying, a lot of shaky laughter and bone-crushing hugs, but they’d both pulled through and agreed they needed counselling. Sumire can’t say that she’s been enough to see a definite change, but Maruki has already helped her begin to work through her more harmful habits and has given her a list of strategies. 

As far as first steps goes, it’s definitely a good one. 

Futaba shrugs. “No worries. I’m proud of you for levelling up and seeking help. I should probably look into getting, but, _eh_.” She pulls a face and shudders. “ _People_. Ugh.” 

As though to prove a point, she glares at the mall-goers around them. 

“Skype calls could be an option for you,” Sumire suggests, “Or another service online.” She taps her fingers against her chin. “If you decide to get one, I’ll be more than happy to help. I’m pretty sure Maruki was advertising online counselling; I can look into that if he’s someone you’d like to see.”

Futaba grins. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” She tugs on the ends of her hair. “You’re really amazing, Sumi. More than you know.” 

Sumire feels heat rise to her cheeks. “Same goes to you.” 

Several people walk by them. Sumire clasps her hands together, wondering if the simple, formal action will do anything to hide how nervous she suddenly is. 

“Oh yeah!” Futaba exclaims hurriedly. “I got these for your inventory.”

She unswings her bag from her shoulder and rummages around, uncharacteristically delicately. It doesn’t take her long to pull out her item: a small bouquet of violets tied together with gold ribbon, only slightly rumpled after their stay in Futaba’s bag.

Sumire gasps. “Violets?” she murmurs, taking them. Now she understands why Futaba was searching like there was glass in her bag: she, too, holds onto the bouquet as though they’ll shatter and turn to dust in her hands. She clutches them to her chest. “You got these for me?”

Sumire gasps and clutches the small bouquet to her chest. “Violets?”

“I _think_ they’re your favourite flower,” Futaba says quickly, rubbing her neck. “I mean, all your usernames have violet in them! You can tell a _lot_ about someone else by their usernames, or at least _I_ think so, so here you are!”

“They are,” Sumire reassures. “Thank you.”

Futaba taps the floor with the tip of her toe, her cheeks so red she may as well have received the flowers herself. 

She’s adorable. She’s so funny, so witty and bright and intelligent and so much _fun_ to be around. She knows Sumire’s favourite flowers, takes time to listen to Sumire’s interests, and Sumire is comfortable expressing any emotion around her. She caught Sumire’s attention from day one with her wacky order request, and has held it ever since.

Sumire takes a deep breath. “Futaba?” 

“Mm? Yeah?”

Sumire clears her throat. Tries to speak. Clears her throat again. 

Wow. It’s so much more difficult to say the words than it is to think them. She’d always thought it silly in the books she’d read, but now… She sends a silent apology to every main character she’s yelled at and called a coward. She finally understands.

Sumire ends up repeating the action several times before she can muster enough courage to blurt you, “You… really like me, don’t you?”

She looks away instantly. 

“Well, _yeah_!” Futaba exclaims, after a pause that was just a little bit too lengthy for Sumire’s nerves. “ _Obviously_! I don’t just give flowers to anybody.”

“Except for Ren.”. 

“That’s an outlier! It doesn’t count! Joke purchases mean _nothing_!”

She’s so _indignant_. Sumire’s lips twitch, and before long that’s a full-fledged grin, and then she snorts and dissolves into a fit of hysterical giggles, her laughter echoing in the space around her. People are staring, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t even notice. Nothing matters except the bubble that forms herself and Futaba, and the words Futaba has just spoken.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. Her cheeks ache from smiling. “But—I’m the same. I really like you too, Futaba.”

She can’t stop smiling, even after she’s calmed down. She feels so light that she’s sure she could walk on water, sure she could fly, and is very willing to test it out. 

Futaba tucks her hair behind her ear, one of her legs bouncing in place. “In that case… Are you free Saturday? Video game marathon. All the curry you want. And I’ll convince Sojiro to buy us a special dessert that goes well with coffee.

It sounds like a dream come true. Better, even, because this isn’t a dream. It’s turning into reality. 

She reaches out and takes Futaba’s hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing.

“It’s a date.” 

  
― _violet: faith, mystical awareness, the subconscious, inspiration_

**Author's Note:**

> lost wistfully into the distance while remembering that this fic was supposed to be sHORT before it grew a mind of its own
> 
> in this au maruki is a normal counselor who got counselled himself and genuinely helps sumire without anything else going on in the background. good for him. 
> 
> futaba definitely knew what amaryllis meant; she researched the meaning of flowers for weeks after meeting sumire.
> 
> come talk to me on [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/agicelestines)


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